


What Death Is

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Lost
Genre: Angst, Beach Walking, Contemplation, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Visions in dreams, talk of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-31 21:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Charlie can't get the thought of Desmond's future visions of his own imminent death out of his mind. Trying to clear his head and find some answers about what could be his last moments on earth, Charlie takes a walk along the beach. It's such a beautiful view and he's happy to see that someone joins him and wants to share it with him. He's simply happy not to be alone.





	What Death Is

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2007 to Livejournal.

He'd seen it, he'd felt it and, most of all, he'd _lived_ through it for every second of his early twenties. As an ex-heroin addict, Charlie Pace knew what death looked like - metaphorically, yes, but that didn't mean he hadn't picked up a thing or two along the way about the physicality of death. Literally a tall skeletal figure, dark cloak and shrouded in mystery - underneath, the Grim Reaper must have been the ultimate junkie _himself._ Because that's how they all looked in the end.

From greasy unshaven faces to sunken eyes and sallow expression, his own experience told him he'd been amongst _anything_ but the living. They who think the walking dead have no rightful place but in comic books and horror flicks have never trawled through the backstreets of Manchester, crawled on their own belly through puddles of vomit for the sake of a little powdered packet. It changes men, as it did him. He'd seen the demise of his brother, his friends, and even himself - a sick, depraved yet overhyped rock-star reflection in the underside of a bass guitar.

"I'm a bloody rock god," he sighed quietly, "...and what good will that do me, exactly?" Despite everything he'd seen, it was a different story now. To be told by a madman that you will, categorically, die within the next few days, would be enough to shake anybody. Desmond had seen the future _truth_ in his visions. So what choice did Pace have? It's a tricky one, at best. He traced a vein on his arm, imagined a black leather strap with skull and crossbones belt-buckle wrapped around a bulging mound of flesh.

It prompted him to smile, a fiendish grin. He could really use some of that stuff now - at least it wouldn't _kill_ him, under the circumstances. He almost _laughed_. Reaching down to the waistband of his cargo pants with an automatic reaction, he found only loopholes, and no means of relief. What an irony that must have been. Bending his thumbs around the strands of material, he lifted himself from the sand in protest, in favour of a steady walk across the beach. He began to stroll over to the sea, observing the scenery as he went. With a heavy heart and heaving burden, the ground crunched, almost in pain, under the increasing weight of his chequered Vans.

"That bloke's a bloody loony," he muttered to himself, "I shouldn't take any notice of what he says." But he still needed answers, in _whatever_ form they came. From admiring the long shadow which he had cast upon the ground, he stared back up into into the setting sun, a perfectly formed ball of glow resting on a bed of cloud. With a lack of warmth from the sun, he saw deep blueness in that sky, pierced by subtle pink jets of vapour - almost a reflection of the ocean, rather than the usual opposite. So taken with the view was he that he barely noticed the hand around his neck, loosely flopping onto hunched shoulders. An arm weary from journey, of someone who obviously has something better to do with his time, but was still making room for Charlie. The person curled his tired fingers for a moment, hesitantly, before holding them at the base of his hair.

"It's beautiful, and yet so ironic," the bald man caught his eye, "Everything seems to take on a different meaning when you think you're close to the end." He pointed towards the unspoiled skyline, where once trails of aeroplanes and unwanted pollution would have sat.

With the future so uncertain, it was a strange place for a former rock-star to be standing. And Charlie knew that. When faced with the question of how they'd spend their last moments on earth, any self-respecting musician would have said they'd be taking drugs or having sex. That's what _he_ would have been doing. Or at least he _thought_ so, up until now. The simple clarity of this island had brought him some sort of inner peace and, with it, his very existence had changed and previous personality traits had taken a back seat. It was true - he would _never_ have done this in Britain - he wouldn't have taken time out from theme parks and cotton candy to sit alone on the beach - to stop, to stare and think. Because it didn't seem to matter then. After all, he had the rest of his life for leisurely pursuits and would be well into retirement before he even considered travelling, gardening or painting the places on picture postcards.

"Such an amazing sight," Pace told him, "It puts everything into perspective after a while - like how I could have been a poet, a writer, anything - something special - but all I wanted to do was take crack and get laid. If only I..."

He was quickly interrupted. "If only you had your time again?" Locke asked him. "You aren't dead yet, you know," acknowledging Charlie with a gentle nod, he made a point of adding, "Besides which, lyricists are a kind of poet - some of the best writers wrote songs; just look at Dylan or Lennon. You're still special, Charlie."

Though he _may_ have been, to the hunter at _least_ , the uneasy smile which currently rested upon the musician's lips showed he wasn't quite _special_ enough. He'd had visions of his own but none of them depicting this. And if his memories of the hatch served him right, he knew, if anything, to take Desmond seriously. Could he _lie_ to someone in such desperation? Even if he _didn't_ know whether the boy would live or die?

Usually honest and open, Desmond wasn't one to advocate false hope. Nor was Locke the kind of person who would take what he wanted by force but, all of a sudden, something overtook him. He clutched the younger man by the face and dragged him into a kiss - a soft, slow movement against the length of his goatee beard and surprising smoothness of his baby junkie skin. It was a struggle at first, but he soon settled into it, knowing he had nobody else in the world right now except for him - the very same guy who got him off of drugs, who took him under his wing and showed him how to live like a human, rather than the hooded hoodlum he was fast in danger of becoming.

The older man held him by the hips as he broke away. "When you go, I'll be all alone on this island," he whispered. "First Boone, and now you," he trailed off, "If you leave, Charlie Pace - it will kill me too..."


End file.
